Father's Day

My husband. Our son's father. He doesn't always say the right thing. In celebratory fashion (I swear!), here are some actual quotes:


"Haha; you look just like a shark! No, I mean your face looks like a shark's face, in profile ... why are you upset? You love sharks!" (To me, in what he claims was complimentary intent.)

"You're definitely not my mom." (To me, in a come-hither voice, following a conversation listing various traits of family members, and thinking he was using a good line to come on to me.)

"No more than usual." (After I asked if a skirt I was trying on made me look fat.)

"Haha! Take THAT." (After placing son's Sorry! pawn back in start and beating him at the board game, when son was 4.)

"What does the wrestler have to do with anything?" (After I'd made a Sid and Nancy reference, gotten a blank stare, and clarified, "You know, Sid Vicious?")

Him: "Mmm; I love when you've showered." Me: "Thanks a lot." Him: "No, not that. I mean, I like that I can tell you showered!" (He thought this was better, somehow.)

"We had a good time while you were on your vacation!" (About time spent with our son, when I'd come home from two weeks of intense work toward my master's degree.)

"I'd like the TV to myself for a while, if you have other things to do. Sometimes I like to watch more grownup shows." (Then he turned on Dragon Ball Z.)

"No. I know it's a spider. It's always a spider." (After our son told him to open a drawer and "see what's in there." He was wrong. It was two spiders.)

"Look, if we're trying to leave and be polite, and we say it's past bedtime and you're really tired, YOU ARE." (To our son, upon finally leaving a social engagement after many attempts.)

"Careful with the food container on the shelf. It's not food. I found a giant beetle at work, and I figured you guys would like it." (OK. That one was pretty cool.)

"Awww, fat little legs!" (As he looked at the warped reflection of my legs in a car window.)

"If you don't finish getting ready for bed RIGHT NOW, you're gonna..." (To son, threateningly.)
"What was the punishment for that?" (To me, whispered.)

"I'm never, ever, ever, ever going to like Jar Jar, and talking about him only makes me hate him more."

"You promised to tell me the abridged version of that cartoon. Nine minutes is not an abridged version."

"No, see, Optimus Prime was originally Orion Pax. He was kind of like a librarian. He didn't become Optimus Prime until he got the Matrix of Leadership. At least in one version." (To son, earning major cool-dad points and starting a looooooong discussion about Transformers lore.)

"That's pretty much all I know about Optimus' background. Like I said five times already." (To our son, an hour later.)

"I don't really know why Alpha Trion has different roles. I don't know why Galvatron changes sometimes and I don't even really know who Ultra Magnus is. I also don't know why their transformations don't make sense to fit their robot bodies sometimes. I've told you everything I know!" (To our son, 30 minutes later.)

"I'M DONE TALKING ABOUT TRANSFORMERS; EAT YOUR PASTA!" (To our son, some time after that. This is how most of these conversations end.)

He has a hard time saying the right thing, sometimes. It must be hard dealing with a couple of overtalkers, overanalyzers, over-everything-ers. Maybe he's a glutton for punishment. He's also a good sport, though, who would probably admit that he did, indeed say "Aww, fat little legs," and that it's not a good idea -- no more so than, say, expecting your 11-year-old to leave an interrogation at one question and answer.

He does, however, nearly always do the right thing. He provides. He works his ass off. He brings home bugs. He brings home that cake we like with the cookies on top of the frosting. He actually likes grocery shopping. He makes a conscientious effort to show love and start conversations with our son (even after past experiences of never-ending conversation traps). He horse plays (which I suck at) and keeps us grounded (which I'm not too great at either); all the while playing to my strengths as well. We make a kick-ass parenting team, and we're lucky to have him.

Happy Father's Day, babe. I love you. For your present, I promise not to share any of the really bad quotes, including that poem you wrote me in high school.

Of cockchafers and bushtits ... or my husband's sudden interest in nomenclature

How you know your wife is a little off:

(Wife, hunched in chair, thumbs through a stack of reference books and mutters to self): "No, not that. Aw, man. That's all there is. Cock... Cock... Let's see...Oh! Here's cock. Nope. Just 'chafer.' Cockchafer, cockchafer, cockchafer again. Cock-frickin'-chafer."

(Husband, snickering, stares at wife): "Good book?"

(Wife, not seeing anything particularly odd or funny): "What? Why?"

As many of you may know, I geek out for both critters and words. Entomology and etymology, I like to say. (By "like to say" I mean I've actually said it. I am indeed a scintillating conversationalist.) Recently, I've been meshing the two with a growing interest in and some research into the fascinating areas of taxonomy and binomial nomenclature.

Really. "Fascinating" wasn't supposed to be ironic.

My husband remains unconvinced, and is not as taken by the topic. And by "unconvinced" I mean "clearly ignorant of how right I am," and by "not as taken" I mean "bored, and also less interested than he would be in something that might pay the mortgage."

Besides, interest a topic in my husband's universe generally comes in two flavors. The first is in flashiness, explodeyness, behemothosity, dramatic mega-fauna ... if Jerry Bruckheimer, Micheal Bay, or J.J. Abrams wouldn't be interested, neither would he.

The second is innuendo and scatological humor. Happily for family time, he shares this affinity with my son. They could spend hours watching a baboon documentary, not because the primates are so fascinating, but because they have big red butts.

I tire of such diversions after about ten seconds. So naturally, my husband and son can subsist for weeks on absolutely nothing but booby/wiener/fart/balls/poop/sex puns, and the occasional intake of oxygen.

They want to include me, see, but I can be a little highbrow and cerebral. And by "highbrow" I mean "no fun," and by "cerebral" I mean "boring."

All of this to say, the cockchafer conversation was sort of the perfect storm.

Me: Well, I was looking for a certain passage on the cockroach, but all I can find is cockchafer.
Him: Really. Cockchafer.
Me: No, really, see? Apparently it's what we call a June bug. But this guy seems quite taken with the name cockchafer. He uses it an inordinate amount of times, like even if you're going to use that term. Seriously. "The cockchafer has... The cockchafer flies... The cockchafer usually appears... The cockchafer eats..." Hasn't the guy ever heard of pronouns?
Him: Well, maybe he's just a pervert who gets off on that sort of thing. Like that one guy with the clams. Is it the same guy?
Me: Linnaeus? No, I don't think so. And anyway, it's a different, um, anatomical feature than the ones Linnaeus seemed to favor.
Him: Right. He liked clams named after woman parts.
Me: Exactly. I guess the, er, fleshy part of one looked like the fleshy part of the other...
Him: Well, maybe to him.
Me: ...so he named them after things like the vulva, anus, labia, hymen and something about pubes. I'm not sure on the last one. But I think.
Him: Seriously.
Me: And flowers. He really only looked at what they did sexually. Apparently plant sexual reproduction was a new discovery, so a lot of people were pretty taken with it. He named plants by what he thought of their sex lives, pretty much. There's names meaning "promiscuous intercourse," "barren concubines," and "parted legs." And listen to what he wrote: "The flowers' leaves serve as bridal beds which the creator has so gloriously arranged, adorned with such noble bed curtains, and perfumed with so many soft scents that the bridegroom with his bride might there celebrate their nuptials with so much the greater solemnity."
Him: Wow. Just, wow.
Me: Yeah. I guess a lot of people were kind of bothered by that, especially in the 1700s, but he really was a genius.
Him: Yeah. I can see that.
Me: No, really! He made the basic system for classifying things. And we still use a lot of his names today. I know he named the Mammillaria genus, you know, the nipple cacti...
Him: Those ones you searched for at work?
Me: Yeah. I got pictures of something, but it wasn't cacti, needless to say.
Him: And why nipples?
Me: I guess he thought tubercles -- those things that stick out, with the spines -- looked like nipples.
Him: Not like any I've seen.
Me: And we still have his mollusk names. Look! Penicillus vaginiferus. Vaginiferous? It sounds like some kind of weird-ass compliment: "Your vagina looks vaginiferous tonight, m'dear."
Him: Ha; how about vaginificent. Or vagipendous.
Me: Oh, wait, never mind. Lamarck named that one. But Linnaeus named the whole genus Penicillus. And, apparently, penicillus is a rarely used term for penis.
Him: So that name means penis vagina?
Me: I guess. Oh, here's one Linneaus named. Penicillus penis.
Him: So ... penis penis?
Me: I guess maybe he wanted to make up for the gender bias in his other mollusk names.
Him: At least he had a heterosexual plant and clam fetish.
Me: Here's a biography. It says Linnaeus "loved nature deeply..."
Him: Yeah. A little too deeply.
Me: ...and that it was his job to make a "natural classification that would reveal God's order in the universe."
Him: So he thought God was overly fond of vaginas, then? So did Linnaeus name boobies?
Me: No, I don't think so. And anyway, that's not fair; that's just the common name. There are a bunch of animals with unfortunate common names. Boobies, titmouse, great tit, goatsucker, dik-dik, slippery dick... Some animals have pretty funny stories about where they got their names, but I don't know those ones.
Him: You're just making these up now.
Me: No, really. You're going to question me on an intersection of etymology and biology? I told you it's fun stuff. At least all we have out here is the horny toad, if people call it that; the wood pewee and dickcissel if you really want to push it; I think maybe goatsuckers; a booby was sighted in Arizona once I think but not in a while...
Him: Sounds familiar.
Me (ignoring): ...and the cockchafer obviously, and the nipple beehive cactus. Oh, and the bushtit.
Him: Hee. Bush. Tit. And I thought there was a whole group of nipple cacti.
Me: Genus. And maybe they made sure the other common names were less, um, distracting. Scientific names are pretty bad too. Enema pan, that's a beetle; there's some kind of snail called Fukuia something; ooh, and a solpugid, I love those, called Eremobates inyoanus. I love that one. A something fartus and a Fartulum something. And my favorite is Colon rectum. That's a beetle too.
Him: Scientists have a warped sense of humor, I guess.
Me: They do! Look; here's a story about a fungus named Phallus drewesii. Apparently, this guy named Drewes was on an expedition with a friend of his who's a mushroom expert, and he found this two-inch-long, crooked, phallic-shaped mushroom and jokingly named it after his friend.
Him: So the whole name comes from a your-penis-is-smaller joke.
Me: Yep.
Him: Well, just find more stories like this, and I might be more interested in this field.

(Later)
Him: Say it again.
Me: Oh, come on.
Him: No, really. Is it "entomology?" I thought that was insects.
Me: Oh! Etymology. Study of word origins. Entomology is insects. Sorry. I thought you wanted me to say the stupid bug name again.
Him: Hey.
Me: What?
Him: Say it.
Me: Say what?
Him: You know.
Me: [Sigh.] Cockchafer.

We hit the father lode

Last week at this time, my husband and I were planning to have lunch with my mother-in-law. As we contemplated if the restaurant would be packed and keep us waiting like a bunch of goobers (not good for an impatient perpetual motion machine kid, a hungry post-church mother-in-law and grandma-in-law, and a couple who manages to turn an idle ten minutes into a passive very aggressive whispered argument over who has been nicer to whom, vis-a-vis an incident the night before involving Tuna Helper), my husband said, "Well, isn't it Father's Day?" My heart/brain/facial expression melted. I raced through options in my head, rushed "secret" trips to the store/cards made/goodies baked, until I realized it wasn't that weekend -- I thought. But I wasn't sure. (I totally promise to be easy on you next year when you forget whether my birthday is on the second or third, babe.)

But others are much more on the ball, and I've been watching/reading a fair bit online the last few days about dads, their roles, their treatment, and so forth, in time for Father's Day.

The thing is, I've never really given much thought to "Do fathers get a raw deal," "Can they do just as good a job as mothers," or "Are fathers treated as second-class parents." Partly because my brain is busy thinking things like "Is the toilet going to flood our bathroom for a third time today," "Why on Earth did the universe entrust me with such an awesome kid and give me such a great partner," "Can we afford mortgage this month," "What the hell is that smell," "What's the difference between an eared grebe and a pied-billed grebe," and "Which Bakugan is blue, again?"

(Not necessarily in that order. Sometimes, though.)

(Yeah, these are all thoughts in my head at this moment.)

But it's also because my own family was never like that. Sure, there were times, many, that my mom was the "primary" rule giver, and when the shit (which, if it was there because of us, we'd better clean it up ourselves or ELSE) really hit the fan, she usually took charge at home because 1) she was the one home most often and 2) she was her (if you know her you'll know what I mean). But they were a team, and my father was about the most involved father one could possibly have. He taught me reading and humor and music appreciation and that Beach Boys are great if you're happy and Jim Croce is good if you're sad and how to be sarcastically snide to the music guy at Best Buy if he calls him "Jim Crochet." He taught me as much about baseball as is possible to cram into a three-year-old's head, and later, everything else about baseball. (I've fallen out of following it, but could still properly keep score in my sleep, backwards Ks and all, and I know that Ozzie Smith switch hit. Go crazy, folks.)

More than that, my dad was sort of a superdad. He was the popular teacher/coach at school, the goofy (though you can't really help but be goofy if you're as tall as a phone pole and wear SHORTS in front of 11- and 12-year-olds), sarcastic, teacher-it's-cool-to-like teacher. If a kid needed guidance or coaching or extra anything, he was there. We shared our dad often, and it somehow always seemed to add rather than take away in terms of his dad-ness.

I've written on my dad before. I pretty much idolized the guy. That, I always thought, is the standard by which all dads are to be measured. I have never exactly made a secret of how I felt.

So already, you can possibly see where my husband could have maybe felt pressured. Just a tad.

But it's not even that. I ... well, I don't hide it exactly, but there are some things I don't exactly broadcast. I used to think it was to not make my husband feel weird, or even my son. But it's me.

It's just: David didn't start out Aaron's.

But that's not how it is at all. The thing is, Aaron chose David. He chose both of us.

If I were telling another story, a romantic story, I’d tell here how my husband and I came to be married one December afternoon, with my son as ring bearer, how the ceremony went on to recognize the union of my husband and son as father and son. I’d tell how we all got to that point -- how Aaron and I had dated through high school and a few years afterward. How we had been the forever and ever couple. I’d tell about taking Aaron to my prom, unbothered when his family threw scandalized looks at my dress straps, as if this was exactly why their son had been home-schooled.

I’d tell the usual tired stories about betrayal and sex and school, and maybe some less-tired ones involving a diabetic coma (his), a black bear encounter (both of us, and we think a black bear), and even more daunting, encountering my mother after a particular indiscretion ("... and a teenage female, last name Henry-Ocean-Sam-Edward-Yellow. I think the male's head is about to implode from mortification. Wait, I just heard 'im yell 'Your mom has a POLICE SCANNER?!' I think I'm gonna make 'em wait a minute more, mess with 'em.") (Most definitely both of us, as my mother was delighted share).

I’d tell how our relationship had survived fights, only to disintegrate from stagnation. How it had nearly torn us both apart as individuals. How I’d dived headlong into a job I didn’t really like, met someone I didn’t really like, had a child, alone, and why I honestly never think about that man. I'd tell who Aaron had used that time to date. How, when we finally became good friends once again after three years of little communication, all of that seemed to fall away and it seemed natural and easy that we’d be together again. How it hasn’t really been that easy, if I'm honest with myself. How I know so completely that I want it, and him, anyway.

But I'm not telling that story. I guess the only important points here are: Aaron and I have known each other for about eighteen years. We've been super-close friends for the better part of those years, if not consecutively. We dated, then we didn't. I had a kid. He married me and embraced that kid. He loves my son. His son, our son.

No matter what we'd ever gone through, even before he was his "father," Aaron was there for David. He was the first visitor when I had him, a fixture around the house when I brought him home. Even before we'd considered anything like getting back together and back when he still thought he hated kids, he loved David. He was covered in spit-up and at least tried to change a diaper. Which is what parenting is, in my experience. I'm not a mushy goo-goo girl. I didn't know how to change a diaper until after I had a son. I am much more kid-inclined now that I used to be, but it's more by immersion and philosophical understanding. Kids are still a pain. But it's different with mine. And that's how Aaron is. He's not a kid person. But he's definitely an our-kid person. He's a dad.


Aaron isn't just like my own dad. Which isn't better or worse, just different. (Actually probably better for me specifically, since I never would have married someone just like my father -- two sarcastic, opinionated, never-backing-down bigmouths wouldn't have worked too well.) We're our own family. He's his own person, learning and growing and loving and screwing it up just as often as he gets it right just like the rest of us. But the one thing that is the same between them is the caring. I haven't known very many people who care as fiercely as my own father, and this one:



Happy Father's Day, baby.

(It IS this weekend, right?)

Marital, um, bliss?

You scrub three toilets, scour and spit-shine four sinks, wash a mountain of seemingly self-replicating dishes, wash four loads of laundry, spend half an hour cleaning a mysterious carpet stain you suspect is somebody's/something's vomit, do the morning's work on the computer, slave-drive a seven-year-old through a homework packet, sweep and wash the floors, put away the groceries and begin (albeit half-assedly) to clean the garage. Your spouse vacuums the living room and puts away the dishes. Do you:

A: Say "Thanks, honey. That really makes it look a lot better. I know you usually take care of most of the out-of-home business, so I really appreciate your help around the house. Why doncha, um, follow me upstairs?" (Wink, wink.)

or

B: Say "Sure! Just finish the stuff I started! I've been working my ASS off all freaking MORNING, and you just come in and do the polish-it-off chore and then act like you've done as much as me! Did you even notice what I did? And what the freaking HELL are the spoons doing in the butter knife slot?! Oh my GOD! Did you ever do those shape-sorting things when you were a baby, or did you miss that year? No sex for a year!"

I seriously hope, for the sake of husbands everywhere, that most women are better wives than I.

And men? Slots shaped like butter knives accomodate butter knives. And anything else your wife tells you? It's true. Just go with it. But like you freaking mean it.

(Sorry, baby.)

I feel better now.

(Wink, wink.)

Happy Anniversary (Or, "See, I told you I post nice things sometimes")

Dear Husband:

I could, maybe, think of ten things I hate about you. But there will be another time for snarkiness and venting. Today is not the day for that. (Most days aren't, come to that. You're infuriatingly faultless sometimes.) Today is the day for the ten, or twenty-eight things (or at least twenty-eight of the things) I love about you:

1. Your tenderness.
2. Your conviction.
3. The way you regularly change the picture on your cell phone to different shots of our son, and you obviously don't do it for "points," as I had no earthly idea you did so until last week.
4. Your forearms. I mean, wow.
5. The way you act gooey-mushy-lovey to the cat when you think no one's looking.
6. Your ability to provide for us. And not just the money (though, yeah, I love that too).
7. Your patience.
8. The fact I never secretly think I'm smarter than you.
9. The way you tolerate it when I act like I am.
10. Your unending supply of euphemisms for making the, um, beast with two backs. (There's a new one for you.)
11. When you startle me.

12. They way you get all stoked and talk at the top of your lungs when you're excited.
13. Your stupid jokes.
14. Your dedication.
15. The fact that we can play.
    
16. How you play with our son.
17. How quickly, naturally, just like that, he became OUR son.
18. Your dorky laugh.
19. The fact that we can just be together -- not as in "be together," as in just be. And when we suck at everything else, that's enough.
20. Our history. Even the bad parts. Well, most of the bad parts. Maybe not that part in the parking lot. But you know, if things hadn't happened the way they had, they wouldn't have happened the way they have. Or that's what some dorky 16-year-old told me, anyway.
21. When you walk around in sock feet.
22. How you get all competitive about everything. Have you beaten my and David's Zoo Tycoon game yet?
23. Listening to you boss people around. Come on baby, talk managerial to me.
24. Your curiosity.
25. The way you order a dish at the restaurant, as if it's really your idea, and then "ask" me if I want to "try" some.
26. The way you lie when I ask if my hair looks nice. Good form.
27. Your love.
28. You.

Happy Anniversary.

Valentine's Day

Here's what my husband didn't get me for Valentine's Day this year:

Overpriced flowers:
Yeah, yeah, nothing says love like a bundle of decapitated vegetation. Does it seem odd to anyone else that it's become tradition to proclaim everlasting love and commitment with a dying or dead gift? Not the best symbolism, if you ask me. Which you haven't. But my husband, smart guy that he is, has. And he listened.

Fancy restaurant meal:
Yes, I know, nothing is more romantic than wooing and soliciting family members to babysit, having a protracted passive-aggressive argument because we both want the other one to "pick" the place, and overpaying to be wedged between the asses of other packed-like-sardines suckers waiting for three hours to eat at a crowded restaurant where we will be rushed through our meal so the next group can hork down their meals. But it's just not in the cards this year. I'd rather go some other day, preferably at an off-hour, when my husband's Sean Connery impression and my son's overly specific narrative about bathroom habits will garner a minimum of glares.

Dancing:
Yeah, right. I don't think I've made too awful of an impression -- of those of you who have had the misfortune of seeing me attempt dancing in real life, I've only done it once in the presence of each of you. But let me assure you: the falling-on-my-ass-under-some-guy's-groin incident, the guy who assumed I was drunk because I was performing no moves ever in style (nay, in existence), the ten-steps-behind attempt to learn a salsa move or two, and the clubbing-dancing experience that I dare not expound upon in mixed company -- these are not flukes. Dancing + me = disaster. Dancing + me + my husband = disaster times two.

Frilly, foofy, girly stuff:
You know, everyone thumbs their noses at gift cards, because it "doesn't take any thought." But seriously, how much thought and consideration would my husband be showing if he got me fancy earrings or a spa certificate, knowing I'd far prefer a gift card to Border's? And pink anything = blech.

What my husband did get me this year:

A card:
Know this guys: You could spring upon your lady a tropical vacation, two dozen roses, pearl earrings that were perfect for her tastes, and a thousand-dollar shopping spree (and even be willing to go with her), and she'd still want to know where the card is. And for the love of ever getting some Valentine's Night, don't just sign your name. Fortunately, my husband knows all this, and even appears to thoroughly mean all the sweet, poetic things he writes in the card. Plus, I know he picks out all cards for me with our son at his heels:
"Dad, let's get Mom this one!"
"I don't think she wants the Incredible Hulk."
"What about this one?"
"Or the Fantastic Four."
"Oooh! This one!"
"You know we're not picking them out for you. Mom doesn't really want SpongeBob."
"But the one you picked looks boring ... Hey, why does the guy on this card look wet? And he has a banana over his..."
"Hey! Where's the SpongeBob card again?"

I don't know who could help but appreciate the effort put into such a gift.

A living plant (roses):
Do I find the line in my card "I bought you a live plant because I see our relationship thriving and growing" kind of cheesy? Sure. But not nearly as much as I find it sweet, and exactly what I wanted.

Chocolate:
Spontaneity is great for trips and romantic gestures and such, but it's highly overrated when it comes to gift choices. Thankfully, my husband knows this. He also knows exactly where to find really good dark chocolates. And that he'd better not eat them all after buying them for me.

Time:
He worked Valentine's Day, so it's likely that after coming home late he would have rather just konked out, or maybe drowned his stress in a few mindless hours of computer gaming. But he listens to me talk about writing, and David's latest misadventure, and lovey dovey stuff. He's cool like that.

So recap: Card + healthy plant + chocolate + my husband listening to me prattle = (to quote a certain Steve Martin movie) That's all I need.

What I got him:

A card:
A funny one, because one of our greatest bonds is that we can make each other laugh until I make this really ugly-doofy face and he makes this sound like a donkey with emphysema. But also with a message from me, containing the very true but pretty sappy sentiment that (don't tell anyone) he really wants.

A DVD:
Because there's really no guy-department equivalent to stuffed animals and heart-shaped everything.

Reasonable immunity:
I promised not to discuss a certain funny incident involving someone's boxer short collection. So I can't talk about any of them. Not the ones with a character whose name rhymes with Schmopeye the Tailor Fan, who has an affinity for a certain greenery; not the ones with a certain fluffy blue, gluttonous character whose name rhymes with Schnookie Fonster. And definitely not the ones with the glow in the...
Promise. Immunity. Right. Never mind.

David got us both cards and goodies. My card has about a thousand hearts, and a handwritten message that says "I love you Mom. You take me on walks." Aww.